Sherlock, just one touch
by BellaDonna24
Summary: A collection of one shots featuring one touch, Jealousy, death, religion, a mentos kiss and Tea. Just some fluff and smut. Sherlock/John mild slash.
1. Just one touch

**I very sadly do not own any of the characters, the names, places, taxi's or corpses in any of the Sherlock series :'(  
Dr Watson/Sherlock slash, nothing graphic I just thought it was sweet, tell me what you think...**

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**Watson's P.O.V.**

He walked with me, saw, when no one else did, every time I winced in pain.  
We walked together for hours, close, but very obviously not to close; I wanted to close the gap, longed for the shield only his arms could provide.  
Sherlock knew how I hurt, knew that every time a mother called her child, a father hugged his son or a sister teased her brother, my heart cried out in pain.  
He knew like no other that i was forcing myself not to jump up, run away, yell at the world because I no longer had any of that.  
Sherlock looked at me with those piercing eyes of his and in those light gray depths I saw everything I needed.  
Someone who would be there for me, completely and unconditionally, like my family never had.

We walked through the dark streets of London, I was wearing a thin shirt and wrapped my arms around my body in an attempt to keep out the cold.  
Sherlock briefly touched my arm and frowned, I smiled reassuringly at him, I would not die of a bit of cold.  
Five minutes later however my teeth started shattering uncontrollably and Sherlock looked just about ready to strip of his shirt to keep me warm  
( In our hurry we had both forgotten our coats when Lestrade called).  
Luckily even Sherlock saw the sense in not walking around London naked to the waist; instead he guided me to a bus shelter  
where we sat in the corner on the ground, as an elderly couple occupied the seats.  
Despite being sheltered from the wind I shivered again and Sherlock started rubbing my shoulder.  
I briefly wondered how he could be so warm in below 0 degrees and nothing more than a shirt, but all coherent thought was soon pushed away by his touch.

After a while the elderly couple seemed to give up on the bus and left. We stayed sitting on the ground though, moving would mean he'd stop and I found I didn't want him to.  
As the minutes dragged on Sherlock's hand absentmindedly trailed to the inside of my arm; his touch getting lighter until it was just the tips  
of his thin long fingers gently traipsing across the soft, sensitive skin of my arm.  
I shivered with an odd feeling, that had nothing to do with the cold, as his callused fingers flowed from the warm, thrumming pulse in my wrist, to the gentle V shape of my elbow,  
ending midway my bicep.  
As the detective continued the action with a far-away look on his face, I vaguely noted I had not been cold for some time and that a blush had crept onto my cheeks; my stomach tickled in a not entirely unpleasant way that felt like there was a swarm of butterflies inside, trying to pull me closer to the quiet detective.  
Small alarm bells where going off in my head, telling me this was not good but I needed all my attention to keep my breaths regular. Though Sherlock was hardly touching me, my hart was stuttering; but that was the point, this was not a brief hug after a life or death situation, or a friendly push when we where fighting to get to the door first. This was a soft touch, an unconscious action.  
It was real, without thought or deliberation.

When the bus arrived, it was as if the doctor and the detective woke from a dream and, realising what he had been doing, the latter pulled back his hand as if he'd been electrocuted.  
We where silent on the bus ride home, both taking care not to touch each other, the consulting detective had placed the palms of his hands together and was leaning against them, the tips of his fingers pressed softly against his lips.  
Upon leaving the bus snow had started to fall and I could not suppress a shudder, with an inaudible sigh Sherlock put his arm around me.  
I did not resist, I did not care about the consequences.

When we arrived at 221 b Baker street we walked up the stairs until we got to the first floor, I was about to head up to my bedroom when Sherlock's hand gabbed mine.  
"Why don't you come into the living room for a while, to warm up? I left the heating on."  
I nodded dumbly as he held the door open for me and followed me in. I stood with my back to my till now friend and flatmate until I felt two arms snake around my waist. I turned around in the taller mans arms, trying to decide whether my seemingly obvious deductions where right. Looking into Sherlock's eyes who's pupils were, despite the fairly bright lamp behind me, quite dilated, I decided my deductions had indeed been correct.  
I lifted my chin further up towards the taller detective and, entwining my fingers in his thick dark curls, kissed him deeply.

The next morning I watched the sun come up through the living room window, my bare limbs entwined with those of Sherlock.  
The unusually strong sun was shimmering on the rooftops, I thought it looked like it wanted Sherlock to see the beautiful sight, wanted Sherlock to look at the most beautiful thing London had to offer.  
I caught the consulting detective watching me and guessing (or deducing) what I was thinking, he murmured in a voice I didn't know he possessed:  
"But I allready _am_!"

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**Thanks for reading, if i get some good reviews i might right some more chapters, either way I'm rather new at this so any comments are welcomed and taken in like a puppy adopted from the pound! ;) THX**


	2. How it started

**Thanks for all the reviews, this chapter is set before the first chapter a prequel of sorts, i guess this is the start of John/Sherlock. Hope you enjoy  
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters in this book, nor the creative geniuses behind them.**

**Sherlock P.O.V.**

I couldn't stand it!  
Sarah smiled coyly at john and he flirted back, he whispered something into her ear that made her giggle.  
This wasn't John, John hated all this silliness, the transparent innuendoss. The prancing about like a _pony's_.  
Why he did it was a mystery to me; all i knew was that every time she touched him, smiled at him, I wanted to scratch her pretty face, shout at this _woman.  
_Because that was the hart of the problem.  
Even if Sarah was out of the picture, every woman in the world would get preference over me because smart, funny, caring Doctor John bloody Watson was **straight**!  
He would never look at _'the great Sherlock Holmes' _that way, would never under the cover of darkness, imagine pushing the hair from my face and kissing me; would never care for me as more than a friend.  
It was a miracle he cared for me as much as he did, insufferable git that I am.

As John gallantly helped Sarah with her coat I snatched up a book, burying my face in it.  
Later I would gently, patiently draw out Sarah's features, hang it on the wall over the yellow smiling face, and shoot Mrs. Hudson's wall to smithereens.  
But for now all I wanted was oblivion. I wanted to immerse myself in the mystery and intrigue of Sir Arthur Conen Doyle, wrap his fictional world around my mind like a blanket, drown in it like in the embrace of a lover.

When John came home that night, he found the consulting detective curled up on the couch, his back turned on the world, a book and a gun clutched to his chest.  
John grabbed a blanket and laid it gently over the detective.  
Bending closer, John frowned as he saw that what looked like tear streaks stained Sherlock's cheeks.  
John gently brushed his fingers over the sleeping man's face, pulling them back as he stirred slightly.  
Walking up the stairs to his room the Doctor held his hand in a tight fist; but weather he was trying to take back the gesture, or savour the feeling of the soft pale skin against his fingers, even he didn't know...

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_Hope you all enjoyed it, any suggestions, comments or reviews are like Oxygen. The more I hear the more I am encouraged to write! :)_


	3. Falling Deeper In Love

**Just another quick dabble, can elaborate on/continue it if I get requests!**  
**Enjoy**

**P.S. I do not own any of the characters in this story, but damn I wish I did ;) **

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**Sherlock's P.O.V.**

John had stormed up the fire escape ahead of me. I had been hit by several cars and despite my ignoring the pain, I was slower than usual. I arrived on the top of the roof to see John grappeling with the killer we had been chasing accross London. I pulled my Browning L9A1 out of my pocket ( this man I was definately not pleased to see).  
The crazed psycopath -note psycopath not sociopath, BIG difference Anderson- looked at me as he (god knows how) got John in a headlock inches from the side of the building.  
It seemed as if the whole world pushed and pulled all at the same time. The murderer pushed John and I pulled the trigger. we both got our target.  
The killer collapsed with a bullet in his chest and John went sailing over the edge of the roof.

**John's P.O.V.**

A split second before I toppled over the edge of the building, everything seemed to stop. I had glimpsed the 10 story drop and instinctively knew I was going to fall.

As I plummeted towrds the ground, windows flashing past, cars racing below me; at first I didn't think my life was flashing before me.  
The only thing I thought of was Sherlock. As our eyes locked, a look of horror on the tall pale man's face, I allmost smiled.  
If I had been able to choose the last thing I saw in this world, this man's face was it.  
I realised my life didn't need to flash before my eyes, it was right there in front of me; in his face I saw all the laughs we had shared, all the long evenings, all the near - and now apparently just- death experienses we'd had.  
Sherlock Holmes _was_ my life.

We had been friends and more, much more, but never untill now, now that I was free-falling to my death, did I realise that I loved this dark mysterious man.  
With every second I got closer to the ground, with every meter I fell deeper.  
With every second I got closer to death, with every meter I fell deeper and deeper in love.

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**Hope u liked!**

**Thank you so much for the revieuws by the way! They're really encouraging and helpful!**


	4. Fallen and getting up

**Hi! Sorry just realised I forgot to save the edited version before publishing etc etc so re-posted and hopefully better.**  
**Thank you SOOO much for all your great reviews they really encourage me to write more!**  
**This is in the hospital after the last chapter, I own no character nor do I profit in any way from this story ( one day maybe ...? )**  
**Read, Digest, ENJOY!**

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_I'm chasing after John, but no matter how hard I try, I can never save him on time, and I have to watch, over and over again, as the only person I have ever loved, smiles softly at me as he plummets towards the ground bellow..._

_The wind is rushing past my face, the air whistles in my ear. I know what's about to happen. The only consolation, as I wait for the bone breaking impact to hit me, is my lovers pained face looking down at me..._

Two sets of eyes flash open, deep blue and pale green orbs staring up at the ceiling, pupils dilated with fear, both with the others name on his lips.  
The blue eyes are briefly overshadowed as his hand ghosted first over his face then through his sandy blond hair. The owner of the grayish green eyes pinching the bridge of his nose before placing the palms of his hands together and pressing them to his sharply curved lips.

**John's P.O.V.**

My hands are clenched in the starched sheets, my jaw is clenched tight and my chest is heaving with the pressure of my thrumming heart.  
I sigh and relax into the hospital bed; every damaged part of my body (make that just plain EVERY part of my body) is starting to hurt now that the adrenaline rush from the nightmare is wearing off.  
The soft humming of the fluorescent lights blends easily with the soft patter of rain on the hospital windows.  
I tuck my hands behind my head and stare up at the ceiling, drawing the sharp, yet soft, dark yet warm features of Sherlock Holmes.  
Sherlock bloody Holmes; more pain-full than the bruises and the concussion, more agonising than the broken bones after my fall, is the memory of that look of compete agony and despair etched on my lover's face.

I lie in my hospital bed, engulfed in a timeless void of thought and reflection.  
The streak of light coming from the hallway is partially obscured by someone standing in the doorway, the outline of a thick mop of curls and a long heavy coat briefly visible before the figure crosses the threshold into my ward.  
I hear the almost non-existent sound of thick wool pooling softly onto a chair as the owner discards it. My mattress dips down as a warm body slides under the covers, I roll over and curl instinctively into the taller man's body. My face nestled in the warm curve of his neck, my hand on his chest, Sherlock's arms protectively around me. I nuzzle deeper into the nape of his neck and sigh appreciatively, more comfortable and relaxed than I have been in days. I can feel his heart beating against my hand and see each throb of his pulse as blood coursed through his veins. I can smell his mass produced Deodorant, but with an undertone of HIM, creating a soft,musky slightly sweet scent unique to him.

When the nurse's shift changes and the new on-duty nurse comes into my room on her rounds, daylight is just starting to lighten up the white sterile room.  
The young nurse cocks her head in confusion, starting and restarting her sentence several times before telling Sherlock to get off my bed as these were -obviously- not visiting hours.  
I see Sherlock calculate the probability that she will let him stay, and realise it's non-existent. He gets out from under the covers and slings his coat over one arm.  
Before he leaves, Sherlock gives me a very unsociopathicly tender smile. He turns on his heel and, with the unspoken promise to return tonight, leaves me in my hospital bed.  
A small smile tickling the corners of my mouth as I look at the obviously confused and frustrated nurse.

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**Hope you liked it, I write from my experiences so I would love your opinion on how I portrayed the scene (good or bad) love you all... _xxx BellaDonna_**


	5. Sherlock and John talk religion!

**Something triggered me into thinking about a discussion between those two. If I offended anyone's beliefs here I am very sorry I really didn't mean any harm.**  
**I don't own any of the characters in this story and don't make any profits. If anyone would like the recipe of the sauce John is cooking however, I had my mum's LEGENDARY spaghetti Bolognese in mind and you are very welcome to it ;)**  
**Hope you enjoy.**

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Slim long fingers wrap around the solid wooden table in the centre of 221b Baker street's kitchen. Sherlock's muscles and tendons were clearly visible for a brief second as he lifted himself onto the the table.

The Detective's piecing eyes were only just visible between the heavy, dark locks that framed his face; and the elegant leg pulled up against his body.  
Arms wrapped tightly around the limb and his lips pressed against his knee.

"It just isn't possible John." Sherlock's words were slightly muffled by the soft cotton of his pyjama trousers.  
The Doctor rolled his eyes, "but what if it is? what if there is a greater force?"  
John's words are calm and composed and he doesn't look at Sherlock as he speaks; instead guessing at the amount of herbs to put into the sauce (though he makes a big show of pretending to measure, Sherlock would go spare at him otherwise and probably accuse John of trying to kill him; or something equally dramatic)  
"But there isn't John, there is no single great power, no autonomous ruler, all good, all knowing and all power full just doesn't fit into this world, there are too many horrors that an all powerful god could stop, and an all good god would stop; since these terrors are still part of our daily life there is no god such as you're speaking of."  
Sherlock rattled through his thoughts. Apparently dismissing multiple gods and religions in one -to the end slightly breathless- sentence.

"Okay..." John said, pushing a strand of hair from his eyes. His face was slightly flushed from the steam of the simmering food on the stove, and the undeniable thrill that always accompanied such discussions. Especially with Sherlock, where it didn't matter what side you took, you would battle to keep up with his amazing mind.  
"Okay... So no one god... What about the Greeks and Romans then? they had enough gods to explain any amount of horror, hope and contradiction, and..."  
The Doctor was stopped by the sound of Sherlock's amused, slightly strangled, cough of a laugh.  
"Tss, They were just the single god you mentioned, with multiple personality disorder!"  
The mixture of sarcasm and mirth shone through the detectives words as clearly as sun through a car window at the end of a long day at the beach in summer. Without turning around John knew the raised eyebrow and mocking smile that were searing into his back as he faced the stove.

Watson thought for a moment, forsaking the path of anything that resembled his own reason in favour of continuing the debate he said: "But what if you get sent to hell for not believing? Eternal damnation and a raging inferno for the infidel. You would burn in hell for not believing."  
There was no conviction in the older man's voice, merely curiosity as to the answer he would receive from the detective behind him.  
He wasn't prepared however for the response he got.  
In a tiny voice so unlike Sherlock's usual sharp quipping tone he replied.  
"You think I'll go to hell, you think I deserve an eternity of pain and suffering?"  
Despite John knowing that it was an act, the hurt and doubt in his lovers voice cut him to the core.

John had the good sense to turn off the stove before turning around and crashing his lips against Sherlock's; His kiss rough and passionate, half with annoyance at the emotional blackmail, half with the surge of love for his partner.

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** PRETTY please, with severed fingers from BART's morgue on top, review. I just had a bit of fun with it, the multiple personality comment was by yours truly, to diffuse a bit of a heated discussion between my friends and I kinda liked it. Did you guys? Any suggestions for future fics? I have one lined up with Sherlock and Karate? Any interest?**  
**Lots of love, Bella Donna **


	6. Mentos Kiss

**Hey everyone! Just popped into my head when I was with my boyfriend :) hope you like it! I have had some really great reviews and hope i might get some more, they brighten up my day. Also if you don't like it or have any criticisms PLEASE tell me! love to all the readers.**  
**- xx BellaDonna**

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**John's P.O.V.**

Sitting beside each other in the back of a cab, Sherlock and I are silent as we both watch the big raindrops splash onto the windows. I following the wet trail each of the glistening drops leaves in its wake, racing them against each other, silently encouraging the drops I have hedged my bets on. Sherlock is probably wondering about... well I'm not about to pretend I know what goes on inside that man's mind, whether he is my lover or not.

I'm bored, though I have more self control than the genius beside me I have the same problem as him. I am quick to grasp concepts and have a short attention span, so boredom is quick to surface . Absent-mindedly I open a packet of fruit mentos ( after having habitually checked for any damage on the packaging, I don't trust anything from our flat that could have been tampered with). Peeling back first the gay outer wrapper before moving on to the silver foil beneath I spot the first brightly coloured sweet: orange. I pop it in my mouth before offering one to Sherlock, watching as he grabs the red strawberry flavoured sweet beneath.

Gradually I make my way through the packet, occasionally offering one to Sherlock who silently takes one each time, though he hardly seems to register anything that is going on around him. He does, however, notice my deepening frown as each sweet is revealed.  
"What is it exactly about these mentos, John, that is annoying you so much?" an amused smile plays at the detectives lips as he studies my face.  
"_There'snoyellow_" I mumble, annoyed at my own annoyance over such a matter.  
A involuntary laugh bursts from Sherlock as he looks at me now, rather than analysing me. I scowl slightly before letting out a sigh tinged with both annoyance and humour.

"There are meant to be three flavoured mentos in here, red, orange and yellow; but there isn't a single yellow in here and they're my favourite!" I know I sound like a petulant child but I can't help it, I'm genuinely frustrated by this.  
"SEE!" I exclaim as I reveal yet another red mentos, there are only three left in the packet as I chuck it at my partner.  
Sherlock smiles and unwraps the next sweet, suddenly I hear a splutter of laughter coming from the seat besides me. I look over. Clutched triumphantly between his thumb and index, Sherlock holds a yellow mentos.

My eyes widen in delight and I reached over for it; but Sherlock snatches it away, a wicked grin on his face.  
I glare at him: challenge accepted. A struggle ensues, a combination of tickling, death threats and gentle shoves are exchanged in the back seats of the cab.  
In a final act of desperation, Sherlock quickly pops the coveted yellow prize into his mouth. I stare at him, my eyes wide in disbelief, that's cheating! My face is halfway forming an annoyed pout when a cheeky grin spreads across my face instead; replacing Sherlock's self satisfied look with one of confusion.  
Without warning I lean forward and press my lips against my partner's, I run my tongue along his lips, which part eagerly at my touch. Teeth nibble and tease at soft flesh and hot tongues move together. Then I feel what I set out for, a lemon flavoured orb nestled in my lover's mouth. I play with it before taking it into my own mouth. It takes a lot of self control, but I break off the kiss abruptly as the taxi slows to a stop at our destination. Firmly sucking on my sweet I stride out of the car. Leaving Sherlock seated in the taxi, a rare look of surprise on his face.

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**Please tell me weather you loved, hated, or found mistakes in this story. Thx thx thx.**  
**PS. any requests or suggestions would be loved. **


	7. A cup of Tea

**Hi, just a quick-fic about tea. Hope everyone likes it :)**  
**Disclaimer: the characters in this story belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC, The recipe for tea is -to my knowledge- mine  
Enjoy!**

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** Sherlock's P.O.V.**

I looked out over the London streets enveloped in early winter darkness, the only light coming from the orange streetlights and the reflective snowflakes shimmering in the meager light. The snow was rapidly increasing in intensity, building into a heavy blizzard. John once compared my flurry of words when I got exited about something, to the whirlwind of snow in one such storms.

Standing behind the window of 221 b Baker street, the notes of my violin solo drifting through the air, the whole scene had something otherworldly about it. I found a rare moment of peace in my music, until a whistling howl of wind broke me from my trance.  
I realized there would be nothing peaceful or poetic to this weather for John who, lacking my skill at hailing cabs, would most likely have to walk through the blizzard to get home. I felt a pang of pity for my partner, his shoulder always ached terribly in such harsh weather.

By now I was no longer surprised when I felt sympathy, as I had in the beginning, I loved John not just for who he was, but for who I was when I was with him. With John I did not have to fear being myself, or being called a freak for doing so.

At the same time as I was thinking this, I was trying to think of something to make John more comfortable when he came home. Looking around I saw a picture of John with his mum.  
John was 16 in the picture and already he had been wearing woolen jumpers ( though this one looked hand made) the picture had been taken only a few months before his mother died during the 8888 uprising in Burma . She was a passionate reporter and was in Yangon where the 8888 uprising started. She was killed during one of the ensuing riots. John was only 16 at the time and it had hit him hard; the first pain to set itself in his youthful features. The reason he became a doctor, a soldier; it was what had lead to his PTSD, his scars, his wounds; it is also what lead him to me.

His mothers death had been the start of the sometimes haunted person that was John Watson; but in this picture he was young and happy.  
Looking at this beautiful photo ( I'm not overly fond of the things in general, but the joy that radiated off this particular picture stirred even me) I thought of something that would certainly cheer John up when he came home, a cup of his mothers' tea.  
I had more then once noticed the doctor, after an especially tiring day, divert from his usual cuppa and enjoy this special treat. Whilst making said cup of tea John would always glance fondly at the image of him and his mum, leading me to deduce it was something his mum used to make for him when he was a child.

I looked at the clock, ten minutes till he got home, perfect. Walking to the kitchen, I went through the tea-making routine: get kettle, check kettle for harmful substances, walk to sink, check sink, turn on tap, check water, fill kettle, check stove, put water on to boil. While I was waiting for the water to boil I got out John's favorite mug ( checking it first of course, then giving it a rinse for good measure) and grabbed a teabag. I used the Lady gray rather than the Earl gray he usually drank and added one teaspoon of sugar instead of his usual two, forgoing the milk entirely I added half a teaspoon of cinnamon to the mix.

By now the kettle was whistling merrily and I poured the hot water into the cup. I stood watching as the mixture darkened progressively, stirring at intervals to get the right mix.  
Just as I lifted the teabag out of the mug and gave the whole drink one last stir for luck, a key clicked in the lock and opened to reveal a very cold looking John.  
My partner plopped ungracefully down onto the couch, shrugging off his jacket and kicking off his shoes in an uncommon show of untidiness. I headed towards him once he was sitting, noting on my way over, the sweet scent circling up from the steaming mug, if I wasn't me I'd say it smelled like Christmas. John looked up at me as I approached, smiling thankfully at the hot drink in my hands. He gratefully sipped the steaming liquid before turning to me, a look of amazement on his face and in his honest blue eyes. "How did you..." he started, then reconsidered "don't worry... Thank you." I smiled and sat down. "it was nothing really, I just thought you'd be cold and tired so..." I shrugged, trying to seem casual, but John knew me well enough to know that this small gesture from me, was like a lengthy declaration of love from anyone else; rare and probably more honest than most of such decelerations were.

Having finished his tea he leaned over and brushes his lips against mine. Before I succumbed to the kiss entirely I noted that the tea had _tasted_ like Christmas as well.

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**Love, xx BellaDonna**


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